


turn everything red and the dream is complete

by robokittens



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Drunk Sex, First Time Blow Jobs, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 18:56:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21343099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robokittens/pseuds/robokittens
Summary: Alex meets Dylan for the first time at a house party — one of the dilapidated townhouses near but not quite on campus, paint peeling off the siding, front porch sagging a little unnervingly with the weight of too many drunk kids. Halloween is on a Tuesday this year, so the party is early.
Relationships: Alex DeBrincat/Dylan Strome
Comments: 4
Kudos: 111
Collections: Hawksloween





	turn everything red and the dream is complete

**Author's Note:**

> thank you!!! to atb for running this fest (look, i finally finished something!) and to stonesnuggler et al for the encouragement, and to reserve, always, but also for being like "this needs to be pornier actually" ❤️
> 
> and before u say anything yes i am familiar with dylan strome's horrifying costume of yore, let me indulge myself and also never have to think about it again

Alex meets Dylan for the first time at a house party — one of the dilapidated townhouses near but not quite on campus, paint peeling off the siding, front porch sagging a little unnervingly with the weight of too many drunk kids. Halloween is on a Tuesday this year, so the party is early. 

It's still warm for late October. Half the time by now it's already snowing in Michigan, but Alex isn't complaining; he's rolled up the sleeves of his flannel, but that's about it. The bandana around his neck is getting a little toasty, but that might be the whiskey. He's got a hat on, too, a big goofy cowboy hat that he thinks was maybe part of someone's Toy Story costume once upon a time, and motorcycle boots, because he couldn't find cowboy boots but close enough.

Dylan — Alex doesn't know his name yet, when they first meet, obviously, but — this guy, he's wearing plush devil horns on a headband that look like they came from the dollar store, and red jeans that look like they came from the women's section. The girl's section, probably; they're really tight. It's … not a bad look, Alex has to admit, before biting his lip and looking away. His t-shirt is not as form-fitting as the jeans, thank god, and a sort of mustard yellow in the flickering halogen porch light; he's basically coordinated with the bottle of Fireball he's handing out shots of.

"You want one?" he says. Alex blinks, turns his head, and the guy is — right there. Way closer, way faster than it seems like he should have been able to get there, across the press of bodies on this porch. 

It's the kind of porch that seems like it should have a swing, the way it's already swaying a little, the way the grass grows tall and wild up against the railing, and for a moment Alex pictures himself on it, tucked up against the side of this boy in the red skinny jeans, fireflies circling lazily. Maybe he's had too much whiskey already. He shakes his head to clear the image, and the smile on the guy's face falters.

"Wait," Alex says. "Yeah. Sorry. I'd — yeah, thanks, dude."

The guy grins at him, a little sleazy, a lot charming. He knows what he's doing, Alex can tell. He's — older, Alex thinks, maybe. Not like creepy older, but an upperclassman, nineteen or twenty to Alex's nearly-eighteen. Tall — like actually tall, not just how everyone is kind of tall to Alex. He's got one of those party favor shotglass necklaces wrapped around his wrist like a rosary, green plastic beads leaving indents in his hand when he unwinds it, tips the bottle into it, passes it to Alex.

"Doesn't really fit the color scheme," Alex says, a little snarky, just to watch the guy's eyes widen in surprise and then crinkle in laughter. He shuts his own eyes and knocks the shot back; the Fireball is too sweet, obviously, and he feels the burn all the way down his throat. His fingers are sticky when he passes the necklace back, spilled whiskey and probably the backwash of everyone else who's taken a shot out of this thing tonight. He absently sucks the tips of two fingers into his mouth and watches as the guy's eyes widen again.

"I'm Dylan," the guy says. He wraps the shotglass back around his wrist and holds that hand out. The plastic smacks softly against Alex's knuckles as Alex shakes his hand; Dylan's handshake is firm, and he squeezes Alex's fingers tight just once before he lets go. It could be posturing, threatening. It's not.

"Alex," Alex says, a little belatedly.

"Well, now we both know what we'll be screaming later tonight," Dylan says, and by the time Alex's laughter is shocked out of him, Dylan has disappeared from view. The air smells like cinnamon. Alex tucks his fingers into his bandana and pulls it away from his throat a little. He needs some air.

—

Friday night is well on its way into Saturday morning when Alex makes his way around the side of the house, bladder full and bottle of Schlitz mostly empty. He'd switched to beer a couple drinks ago and is nursing this one, but it's gotten to the point where he's gotta break the seal. His parents raised him better than this but his older brother didn't, and there's no one here anyway. It's fine, he figures.

He's shaking himself off and tucking himself back into his boxers when he catches movement out of the corner of his eye, a blur of red and yellow and the swish of the overgrown grass.

"What the fuck," Alex says. He laughs a little, awkward, zips his jeans up real fast. "Were you watching me?"

Dylan's eyes widen; he looks almost scared, for a moment. His horns are a little off center. "No," he says, too fast, but insistent, not defensive.

There's a parallel universe where Alex is smooth as hell, where he says "Did you want to?" or "I wouldn't mind if you did," where he steps into Dylan's space, watches Dylan's eyes track the movement of his lips. A universe where he's getting better grades, maybe, where he's made more friends in his classes. Where he's sure everything will be fine in the locker room if he comes out to the team. Where he's a little more sure what he wants to come out as.

But he just shrugs, drops the issue. Goes to walk away.

"Hey," Dylan says. Cajoling, a little, but when Alex turns to face him he looks — unsettled, almost. Unsure. His hands are shoved in his pockets, shotglass disappeared somewhere; Alex can't tell if — he doesn't even mean to look, but he thinks Dylan might be kind of hard in his skinny jeans. It might just be that they're so tight; it might be the way his hands in his pockets distend the fabric. His hands are big, Alex can't help but notice, or the front pockets of the jeans are shallow, or maybe both.

"You wanna …" Dylan trails off. Alex waits, but he doesn't continue, just gives Alex an expectant look.

Alex takes a half-step back, a little bit instinct, a little bit fear, a little bit to see if Dylan moves forward. He does. Alex steps back again, and then again, and then his back is against the aluminum siding and Dylan's hands aren't in his pockets anymore, they're on Alex's waist instead. Alex sucks in a breath, sharp and shuddering, and then Dylan's mouth is on his.

He tastes like Fireball, which Alex would have expected if he'd expected anything, if he'd been able to see this coming. He's kissed people before. Kissed a boy before. But this — the wet heat of Dylan's mouth, the almost overwhelming way Dylan's tongue pushes into his mouth, the fingerprint bruises it feels like Dylan's hands must be leaving on his waist, through his thin white t-shirt, where they've snuck under his flannel — this feels different. 

"I thought so," Dylan says, nonsensical. He sucks on Alex's jaw, probably — hopefully — not hard enough to leave a mark. "I thought you'd — you looked — god, yeah." Alex isn't even doing anything, can't figure out what Dylan looks so consumed by.

He's drunk enough that his degree of arousal is abstract until suddenly it's not, until he realizes Dylan is popping the button on his jeans, unzipping them, sliding one hand inside to cup Alex's dick.

"Okay?" Dylan asks, and Alex is barely holding it together enough to nod, still trying to process the idea that he's about to get a handy from a stranger outside of a house party when Dylan drops to his knees.

Oh. Not a handy, then.

Alex sucks in a breath, stares at the top of Dylan's head as Dylan shoves Alex's jeans barely far enough down his hips, bringing his boxers with them. His hair is curling around the headband holding it back, dark dark against the bright red. Alex is — embarrassingly hard, isn't sure when that happened. He hopes to fuck he hasn't been walking around this party all night with a boner, too drunk to notice somehow, except — wait. He just took a piss, and —

"Wait," he says, breathless. He goes to put a hand on Dylan's shoulder, stop him from leaning in, but somehow he cups the back of Dylan's head instead, fingers slipping through his hair. Dylan looks up at him, guileless, his lips just parted, a breath away from the tip of Alex's dick.

"I just," Alex says. Dylan's mouth is so close he can feel it, even though he can't actually feel it. It's distracting. He can't remember what his protest was.

Dylan's lips quirk a little; he huffs out a laugh, breath hot on Alex's dick, and Alex can barely hold it together. "It's chill," he says, and then before Alex can say anything else he licks at the head of his dick. Alex doesn't whimper, not quite, but it's close.

"God," Dylan chokes out, sounding for all the world like their positions are reversed, and then his eyes shut and he has one hand on Alex's thigh, the other cupped loosely around the base of his dick. His fingers are a little bit sticky, sweat or alcohol or who knows what, and his mouth is — 

His mouth is on him, on Alex, on his dick. Swallowing him down — it's not all the way but it's more than Alex has felt before. More than he was ready for. Dylan's mouth had felt so hot and slick while they were kissing but that's nothing, nothing on how it feels now.

Alex does whine, then, short and high pitched but it doesn't seem to throw Dylan off. Encourages him, if anything. Alex tangles his fingers in Dylan's hair, not pushing, not pulling, but holding on for dear life. He realizes he's still wearing the stupid fucking cowboy hat, the felt crushed against the wall behind him as he tilts his head back, breathing hard.

"Oh my god," Alex says. Dylan does — something, with his tongue, and Alex can hear his own breath harsh and loud in the still air. He can still hear the party, through the wall, on the porch, just on the edge of his consciousness. Right through this wall is the living room, he's pretty sure, and someone's put on something slow and grinding. He can feel the bass. He can feel Dylan hollow out his cheeks around him, all slow wet suction. Dylan has — very, very definitely done this before. Alex hasn't, and he wonders for a moment if Dylan would let him return the favor.

Dylan pulls off, and Alex almost protests before he realizes Dylan's laid his head against his thigh, panting. "You good?" he manages, and Dylan laughs.

"You're nice," Dylan says. "And you have a really nice dick, you know that?" He licks up the length of it as if to prove his point, lingering around the head. Alex's fingers tighten in his hair without his permission, but from the way Dylan shivers a little he doesn't seem to mind it. 

Alex isn't sure how much time passes before he manages to sputter out some sort of thanks, barely coherent but entirely sincere. Dylan is mouthing at the base of his dick, his balls, his inner thighs, not seeming very intent on anything but tasting as much of Alex as he can with his pants mostly still on. Intent on driving him crazy, maybe, which he's definitely doing. 

"Dylan," he says. Gasps it out, desperate, on the edge of miserable. The air feels cooler now, with Dylan's spit drying on his dick, with the way Dylan's mouth is so so hot and not quite close enough. 

Dylan laughs a little against his skin, and Alex shudders with his whole body. "Yeah, baby," Dylan says. He sucks the head of Alex's dick into his mouth again, more like a kiss than anything, and then his grip on Alex's thighs tightens and he pushes himself up.

"Dylan," Alex says again, and Dylan laughs, wraps his whole big hand around Alex's dick and shoves his face up against Alex's neck, high up under his jaw above the bandana, licks him there instead. Alex is saying — something, he thinks; he's pretty sure he's making words, as Dylan jacks him steadily between their bodies. His hands really are very big. 

Maybe Alex isn't saying anything at all, maybe it's all wordless exhalations before Dylan finally fastens their mouths together again. He thinks he bites Dylan's lip, maybe. He does something that makes Dylan speed up the hand on his dick. His hands are back in Dylan's hair, tugging him closer even though they're already breathing each other's air when they're breathing at all.

"Gonna," Alex gasps out. It's nothing close to a whole sentence but it seems like enough for Dylan, who tightens his fingers just a fraction, shifts his hips just enough for Alex to jizz out into the grass instead of all over Dylan's very tight pants.

Alex sags against the wall, his whole body feeling loose and empty. One of his hands drops to Dylan's shoulder, and he isn't trying to pull him in but Dylan moves anyway, nips at Alex's slack lips until he opens for him, kisses him with an urgency Alex can't hope to match.

"Fuck," Alex breathes out, huffs out a laugh to follow it. He can feel Dylan's grin pressed against his own mouth.

"Hey," Dylan says. He takes a step back, then another; he shoves his hands back in his jeans pockets, but Alex is pretty sure he's hard, this time. "Hey," he says again, and Alex drags his eyes back up to Dylan's face. 

"I —" Alex starts, but he has no idea how to end that sentence. Has no idea what the etiquette is, here, but he's willing to do … maybe not whatever Dylan asks in return, but pretty close.

Dylan shrugs, stretches his shoulders out. He's so tall when he stands up straight. There's a dark smudge on one of his knees: a grass stain, maybe, or just dirt. His horns are very crooked now, headband barely hanging on where Alex's fingers had tugged his hair into disarray.

"Good party," Dylan says, almost conversational, and Alex laughs, disbelieving. He wants to offer — something, but he doesn't know what. Isn't sure how to offer, how to ask. His fucking dick is still out, he realizes, and peels himself off the wall enough to get all his clothes back on. When he looks up, Dylan is halfway down the side of the house: back to the front door, back to the party.

"Wait," Alex says. He's not even sure it's loud enough for Dylan to hear, but Dylan stops, looks back over his shoulder.

Dylan grins at him again, teeth white in the moonlight. "Trick or treat," he says, and laughs, and then he's gone.


End file.
